


He Shall Know If I Loved Him; But Never How Well

by jentaro



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Julian Bashir and Elim Garak's Book Club, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 Life Support, Yearning, anyway i am delighted that the next tag is apparently a thing, discussions of character death, doctor julian bashir's phd in pining, hell yeah, julian just wants to talk about it a little okay?, like rip to [redacted] but u were so musty, shocked at myself for not writing smut immediately, so much yearning, tender cardassian poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jentaro/pseuds/jentaro
Summary: It seems incredibly unlike Garak to misattribute a page number to the wrong work, but Julian reads it anyway.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	He Shall Know If I Loved Him; But Never How Well

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'm going fucking insane over garashir the more ds9 i watch, anyway i'm fucking gay and i literally spent hours searching through poetry books trying to find a good one so enjoy whatever This is 🥰
> 
> the poem used is attributed to a W. H. Gerry and it was found in an anthology of 19th century poetry written by people from Rhode Island, and a quick search for them didn't really give me much so RIP whoever u were i hope you love being featured in gay ds9 fic

Garak’s arm, loosely draped on the back of the couch, slips enough for his fingers to skim Bashir’s shoulder; just that contact is enough to spark something deep within him. Nothing spine tingling or life changing, but that he is willing to listen means a great deal to Bashir. Then again, Garak has always been a sympathetic ear to his troubles, listening with a patience that never seems to waver. His friend remembers every detail, seemingly, no matter how many facts and what-ifs and exaggerations come out of the broken spigot that is Bashir’s mouth. Garak _always_ listens. 

Tonight, Julian feels heard. 

It's something deeper than friendly lunch chat banter. It’s more substantial than bickering about politics and the implications of those implications that spin their heads until they settle upon another topic that Bashir rapidfire switches to the moment his internal monologue jumps four steps ahead and twelve sideways. The enigma that is his chain of thought sometimes takes a step or two for Garak to get, but he is always polite about following a new tangent. 

Sometimes it is infuriating for Garak to counter his naivety so swiftly, but Bashir cannot deny that having a radically different point of view on certain subjects has enhanced his understanding of the intricacies of Cardassian society. It helps Bashir better understand the person sitting adjacent to him. The sheer amount of Cardassian literature Bashir has consumed in order to discuss it with Garak makes sure of that. And, it could, of course, still all be a devious trap, a realistic threat that only lacks the higher command to manifest Bashir’s ruin. But if Garak is a deeply undercover spy in pretend exile, at this point, he doesn't much care. His friend is always refreshing to be around.

Memorization is a skill of many Cardassians, and it seems that Garak has been blessed with a powerful long term memory to piece together the things that make up Julian. And, of course, Garak has the stamina to spend five hours most recently discussing a novel called Cardassia’s Moondust—it is supposed to be a satirical tale following a rather poetic Cardassian on their personal journey to disentangle themselves from the state. The writing itself had been interesting, though it is clear where the subversive nature of the narrative comes in—and it is where the author’s shockingly honest account of the events of the plot gets forcibly fitted with ill fitting, forced glorification for Cardassian values. 

It’s a novel that Bashir read a second time, even, trying to dissect the inner workings of it. The discussion had been _fascinating_ , Garak seeming very pleased for him to read so deeply between the lines into the writing and seeing the cry for help behind the screen. What is making sales as a warmly received example of state approved propaganda about the consequences of defying the need for order actually has a tender heart within the barbed cocoon of sterile prose. 

Tonight, Julian has had enough of sterility, surely. 

The solid touch of Garak’s hand on Julian’s shoulder breaks the stunning silence he has found himself in after detailing the events of failing to save Vedek Bareil. “I… I’m sorry, Garak. I shouldn't have come in here and unloaded something so heavy on you at such an hour.” It’s late. _Very_ late. 

“My dear doctor, sometimes it is necessary to unburden oneself of frustrations so that one may no longer suffer in silence.” A Classic Garak sentiment, deflecting upon the true reasoning behind his motivations. Never committing to anything deeper than banter—“You are not a burden.”

There it is, the same warm flash that sparks the kindling in his heart. The swipe of Garak’s thumb above Julian’s collarbone is the breath into the embers that tries to catch the soot back aflame. A quiet, murmur of a realization, that his friend that he spends more time with than anyone else in his very fleeting free moments really is listening to him. 

So much has happened.

“I still shouldn't have prattled on and on about it, I’m sure you wanted to relax with your evening, and now it's well past decent hours,” Julian says nervously and with a finality like he has convinced himself it is time to leave, and with it, it is time to put the stirrings of ardor to rest.

“Only decent people keep decent hours, Doctor Bashir,” Garak says, dipping his thumb down to trace ever gently over the protruding plane of bone, careful of his claws. “I am not so decent, but I am wide awake if that will make you feel better.”

It does, but why does Julian feel like he might vibrate apart at any moment if Garak puts another microgram of pressure into his casual touch? “I suppose I am grateful to have such a good friend then, Garak.” 

A friend that charms him at the most infuriatingly inopportune times. One that has given up important half truths once the first crack to his exterior had been made, facts hidden in lies that Julian laid awake at night trying to pick away at. Interactions together that get analyzed and over analyzed again and again until Julian has broken them down into categorized snapshots to rearrange over and over on his inner evidence board of just _who_ Garak really is. 

“You did everything you could, but it was a stressful situation that you had no control over. It sounds like you thought on your feet for the best solution you could find, but it is unfortunate that the best solution was not the ideal one.” 

Doctor patient confidentiality had been tossed out the airlock the moment Bashir stepped on this station with how fast the gossip spreads on a normal day. For a man of Vedek Bareil’s stature, not a soul between Bajor and the rest of the Alpha Quadrant hasn't heard by now about his untimely passing by now, most likely. “It still feels like I could have done more, or that I should have anticipated the side effects of trying to revive him.”

There it is, the nearly imperceptible squeeze of Julian’s shoulder, a twitch of Garak’s hand that should, no, _must_ , be disregarded. “You attempted a medical procedure that has furthered your understanding of medicine. Vedek Bareil may not have been saved completely, but you allowed him the dignity of passing on his own terms. That is cause for celebration.”

“Is it?” He doesn't mean to be rude, no, the last thing Julian wants to do is snap at Garak. “I worsened his quality of life when I-I,” his mouth is dry, making the syllable crack awkwardly in his throat, “I could have put him in stasis so I could do more research. If he had agreed to it, I could have found a way to halt the damage, maybe even _reverse_ it. The logic behind it is sound, but our current science cannot cure this yet.”

“And he chose to forgo waiting for a cure.”

Leaning his side further into the hard planes of the godawful Cardassian couch in Garak’s quarters, Julian takes a deep breath, releasing it slow. “It could have taken weeks, or months, or longer, yes, but I would—”

“You would have had to abandon all efforts once Starfleet deemed the project too much of a drain on resources,” Garak says, exasperatingly right about the likely future again. “The Vedek made the right choice for himself, and it did not align with your medical obligation to your patient.”

“The look on Major Kira’s face though, Garak. Having her in the room and telling her Bareil is doomed to death for a second time,” Bashir starts, but he cannot finish the thought. He can't say out loud how bitter the taste of such an overwhelming failure is upon his tongue, else his own exterior may crack apart under duress. 

“The Major should be so lucky to have someone compassionate administer care for the person she cherished. You caught a flash of life and you chased it, Doctor Bashir, and it allowed your friend a chance to say goodbye. I would count this as a success.” Garak’s voice is soothing, really, it's the only voice in the world Julian never gets tired of hearing beside his own. Usually, eventually, his infatuations and companionships fall apart under the weight of his own personality, but here Garak is. Standing up to replicate Julian another mug of tea. 

Accepting the hot mug gratefully, Julian scoots back enough so they are not so close now. It gives him some breathing room, at least. Cradling the drink in his hands, Julian takes a deep breath of the herbaceous, floral blend, made just how he likes it. “A success that I will think about until it drives me insane.”

“A little bit of insanity is required, I think, to be as intelligent as you are, Doctor Bashir.” The teasing is there, but the praise wraps warmly around his aching bones far more effectively than the tea scalding his tongue. “But it does no good to dwell, may I offer a distraction to you?”

“Please,” said maybe a little too quickly, perhaps. 

“Though you may find the elegance of works like _The Never Ending Sacrifice_ lacking,” the chiding tone is not missed, “An author that wrote a few similar novels has published a book of poetry that I think you may find intriguing, if, _dull_ to your overly ...maudlin tastes.” Garak is still standing, now at his desk, rummaging through a drawer for a moment or two, then procuring a memory stick.

“My most sincere and fullest offense meant Garak, but if I have to slog through another brick of Cardassian poetry about how glorious the fatherland is, I might never take a book recommendation from you again.” He doesn't mean it, most likely. If Garak is recommending terrible Cardassian poetry to him, there is a reason. 

His companion laughs, a sly little chuckle that Julian had once found disingenuous. It now feels as a balm on chapped skin, no longer making him raise his hackles. “I take that threat very seriously, Doctor. And that is why I took the liberty of making an index of the passages that you may find most align with your specific tastes if you didn't want to ...‘slog’ through it, it is quite a long collection.”

Julian takes the offering and tucks it into his pocket anyway, uttering a ‘thanks’ as he puts his mug down on the low table. And really, it will be nice to plug into something that isn't _Exploration Of Stardust_ , the latest romance novel from a brutally honest Vulcan author who tends to get surprisingly abstract in their work. Right now, Bashir isn't sure he can handle something so beautifully and brutally existential. Perhaps obtuse poetry is the way to go as he lays awake tonight. 

“Thank you Garak, I’ll be sure to take a look,” Julian says politely, as if he isn't going to devour this too and try and find what message Garak is sending him with it. It is one thing to tease his friend about the subject of each reading, but it is another thing altogether when he has it in hand. Julian’s understanding of Garak’s infinite obfuscation of truths is the sum of every bit of homework he is given. 

It is within Julian’s nature to be hungry for knowledge, and Garak is a baffling hyperfixation. 

Finally, or perhaps rather unfortunately, Garak sits next to Julian the same distance he had been before, encroaching into the minute amount of distance he had tried to give himself. 

He does not move away again. 

The space between them is a fragile little thing when Garak grabs hold of his hand with both of his own, and for a moment, Julian wonders if this is it—the moment his hummingbird heart beats so fast that his whole body shatters. “I would like it very much if you did.” 

Garak’s hand is softer than he thought, though the edges of scales do still tickle Julian’s palm; such a simple touch afforded to him likely as a comforting gesture, very suddenly, Bashir finds himself overwhelmed. A gentle squeeze of his hand nearly brings Bashir to tears, the embarrassing realization hitting him that, actually, he hasn't had his hand genuinely held in years. He is touch starved, and in this moment he would do _anything_ to fling himself into Garak’s arms and cry out his miseries. Why would Garak ever want to attend to his vulnerabilities though? It would be unfair to place those on him too tonight after needing reassurance over the inevitable deficiencies Julian has to offer in the first place. 

Julian hesitates first, and Garak responds in kind by letting his hand go. A powerful sense of emptiness creeps in, but it's better this way, Julian thinks. This way, Garak isn't the unwitting subject to nonsense, and now they will have something to discuss over lunch later on this week. 

“I—Um, it’s late now.”

“One might even argue we’re fast approaching an indecent hour, my dear doctor. And thus, you never know who may be lurking about the Promenade at this time of night; shall I walk you back to your quarters?” A simple question that is unbelievably ironic, as if Garak doesn't have a golden target painted on his back by every Bajoran on this space station. 

“I wouldn't want to trouble you like that.”

“Oh, but I insist. It would make me feel better to know you arrive safe in your rooms after the stressful day you've had,” Garak says in that same simple Garak tone. Maybe it's another bizarre half truth that Julian will chalk up to his assumed Cardassian spy role, otherwise the alternative may make him dissolve back into the stardust he came from.

The Promenade is blessedly empty at this hour, and their walk is in only as much silence as his nerves can stand. Which is to say, none. Julian’s mouth runs a lightyear a minute, sometimes, but tonight especially he rambles, lest he have to think about why he chose to go to Garak at all. Or, Julian may be forced to think about the light pressure of Garak’s hand upon his inner elbow while directing them around the corners of the station that he would otherwise smack face first into.

When finally, Garak deposits him at his door, his hand smooths down Julian’s forearm on his way to grab his hand again—a scandalous gesture for a Cardassian to make in public, no doubt, except the hallway is as empty as can be. “Goodnight, my dear Doctor Bashir. If you are in need of an ear again, you know where to find me.”

Julian feels frozen by the blunted tip of Garak’s sharp thumbnail dragging across the line closest to their joined fingers. His heart stutters faster than his voice does when he forces out, “G-goodnight, Garak.”

With a bow of his head, Garak bids him farewell with no further pomp, and Julian flees ever so casually into his quarters. The memory stick burns a hole in his pocket, and Julian cannot get it out quick enough. The feel of it is heavy between his fingers, now, but Julian brings it with him anyway to his bedroom. 

Changing out of his clothes feels like shedding an unfortunate surplus of gloom, and to Julian’s surprise he does relax with the poetry book. The index is much appreciated, Bashir browsing the true table of contacts with a certain aversion to many of the poem titles. It turns out to be an anthology dedicated to a specific region in Cardassia. Weather observations and seasonal changes, the rush to feed the Cardassian army by overtaxing their food supply during wartime. The overtaxing of their food supply during peace.

When did the war end? Never, according to Toggik Poza. Though, the glory of the Cardassian empire is the intended message by the stilted, honorous exposition of history being written alongside subtly tender verse. _Starshine’s Exaltation_ in its truncated form is… surprisingly beautiful. It is clear that Poza’s supple wordplay for the empire's contrived glorification is spiced throughout the body to give the unaltered works breathing room. 

About two thirds of the way through the index, the poem is listed as _Our Island Of Dreams……………….191_ , so that is the page Julian skips to. What instead greets him is a different poem—it seems incredibly unlike Garak to misattribute a page number to the wrong work, but Julian reads it anyway to further his enjoyment of Poza’s analect.

__

•

Pastoral 

Across the hollow to the hill  
We looked but said no word until  
A cowbell answered to our will,  
While from the pond  
A frog spoke in soliloquy  
And from a far secluded tree  
A woodthrush echoed liquidly  
Till darkness dawned.

Then grazing down the field of night  
A timid moon strayed into sight,  
And little squares of window light  
Staked out each farm.  
How long we watched I do not know;  
We hunted fireflies by their glow  
Until we sought the path to go.  
You took my arm.

•

A phantom touch burns his skin, and Julian turns the light out in response. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @ [jennyloggins](https://jennyloggins.tumblr.com/) and on twitter at [slimejen](https://twitter.com/slimejen). feel free to come talk or say hi or yell at me or whatever!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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